


blackout

by llassah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, M/M, Nipple Play, Nogitsune Trauma, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Top Derek Hale, Undernegotiated Kink, post season 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> Derek doesn’t kiss him. He rests his forehead against Stiles’s, eyes open, pupils blown. They share breaths, his chest brushing Derek’s with every gasp, and he loves the strain of it, how his lungs feel constricted, heart too big for his chest. Derek lifts his head and Stiles thinks they’ll kiss now, make his lips tingle and his tongue hurt but he lowers his head to the side of Stiles’s neck, presses his lips against the skin. Stiles knows it’s going to hurt soon.</em>
</p><p>After the Nogitsune, Stiles wants-- needs-- to stop thinking for a while. Derek knows just how to take him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blackout

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my entry for [eeames](http://tmblr.co/morSZx6zdX-RuhYgGwGIk6A)'s pwp [bingo card.](http://eeames.tumblr.com/post/75178823586/drunktuesdaze-eeames-how-to-play-1-use-as) As you can see, not a word has gone unused. I STRONGLY ENCOURAGE everyone to try this challenge, in any capacity you feel comfortable with.
> 
>  

“Stop,” Stiles spits out, hands fisted in Derek’s shirt, “stop being so _fucking_ careful.”

He’s not—he’s not out of control. He knows out of control; he’s just…untethered. Adrift, that old restless anger working through him, making him want to react to everything with a fury, a rage that feels familiar to him, easy as slipping on an old skin. He’s tired of being careful, tired of Derek’s delicate questions and tenderness, Scott’s compassion and acceptance, his father’s love and kindness. Derek grasps his wrists, pins them up over his head, the bricks rough on his knuckles. “Like this?” he asks, and he’s pushing him back, kicking his legs apart. Stiles grins, presses the balls of his feet into the ground, arches up into that strain, the unyielding grip of Derek’s hands.

“ _Yes,_ ” he hisses.

Derek doesn’t kiss him. He rests his forehead against Stiles’s, eyes open, pupils blown. They share breaths, his chest brushing Derek’s with every gasp, and he loves the strain of it, how his lungs feel constricted, heart too big for his chest. Derek lifts his head and Stiles thinks they’ll kiss now, make his lips tingle and his tongue hurt but he lowers his head to the side of Stiles’s neck, presses his lips against the skin. Stiles knows it’s going to hurt soon. He knows Derek will make him ask for it, though. Derek, for the moment, is just happy to scent him, to breathe against this skin, nose pressed up against his pulse point. He’s not letting Stiles move at all, just keeps him pinned, doesn’t even do him the courtesy of giving him his thigh to hump, keeps their lower bodies apart as Stiles tries to get some friction, some relief from the insistent hardness of his dick. “Please, just—fucking _do something_ ,” he says at last, hates the slightly broken crack to his voice, the need in it.

Derek smiles against the side of his neck, forces his arms up higher until he’s on the balls of his feet, sets his teeth around Stiles’s deltoid, bites down until Stiles is trying to move away, his teeth a sharp pressure through the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t let go, keeps the pressure up as Stiles whines and writhes, closes his eyes and shakes his head from side to side as if he could get away like that. Stiles would be sure he’d drawn blood if he didn’t know that Derek is precisely, chillingly aware of the strength in his jaws, the sharpness of his teeth. Derek moves to the juncture between his neck and his shoulder next, teeth pressing into bare flesh as he sucks a hickey that’ll look more like a war wound than a lovebite onto his skin.

He’s panting, aching with need. His shoulder and his neck throb, his arms hurt and he’s grazing the backs of his hands as he struggles, the roughness of the bricks abrading his skin. He could come like this if Derek made him. “On your knees,” Derek says, lets go of his wrists. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t leave Stiles any room so he ends up with his legs splayed around Derek’s, his back pressed up against the wall. Derek keeps his hands by his sides, just stares down at Stiles, his eyes dark. No one else gets to see Derek like this. No one else gets to see this side of him, the desperate, dirty side, the side that looks at Stiles with hunger, unbridled lust. “Unfasten my fly. Just the fly,” he says, and Stiles swallows, nods, fingers sweaty on the metal of the zip. His legs ache already. Derek’s wearing green boxers, soft. He took them from Stiles’s laundry basket last week. Might not have even washed them. He’s hard already, leaking a little, leaving a damp patch on the fabric. Stiles leans in, inhales deeply, closes his eyes at the way Derek moans, at the scent of him.

 ”Take me out,” Derek tells him, a slight husk to his voice. He skims his fingers over the fabric before he frees Derek’s dick, just to see the helpless stutter of his hips, the way he wants. Derek reaches down, puts a hand on the back of his head. “Open your mouth,” he says, and Stiles does, waits with his mouth open like a baby bird as Derek takes his dick in his hand, traces over Stiles’s lower lip, up the side of his cheek. He trails precome over Stiles’s forehead, his hair. Marks him up. Stiles can feel the blood pulsing through his veins as he waits, heartbeat loud in his head. The air feels thick and close. He opens his mouth wider, the only way he can beg. “Greedy,” Derek murmurs, petting a hand through his hair. “Maybe I won’t give you my dick. Maybe I’ll just jerk off, not even give you a taste.” Stiles glares. Derek hums, keeps his hand in his hair, thumb stroking his hairline “Poor boy,” he croons, swipes his dick across Stiles’s cheek, bumps it across his nose, laughs as Stiles tries to catch it in his mouth, turns his head. He wants. Just wants the weight of his dick on his tongue, the taste of it. Wants to tighten his lips a little around the head, lick around the slit, probe his tongue into the foreskin. “Or I could fuck your pretty mouth. Bury my dick in your throat, make you take all. You want that?”

He blinks, slow, sluggish. “Please,” he says, mouth dry. He summons some more spit, wets his lips. “Please fuck my mouth,” and he opens wide again, so wide it feels like the skin at the sides of his mouth is cracking. Derek nods, once, tugs his hair with one hand, guides his dick into Stiles’s mouth with the other. Stiles likes Derek’s dick. It’s thick, uncut, heat covered in soft skin he could run his lips down all day. He found a book subtitled ‘tastefully erotic short stories for the unattached lady’ in the lost property crate at the station once. The page it fell open to when he shook it, the one with the corner folded down, had a loving description of the hero’s dick. It called it his swollen member, his manhood, described the way the heroine ‘quivered with lust’ at the sight of it. He’d skimmed that bit when he read it, eager to skip onto more heaving bosoms, or the part where the heroine was interrupted in the bath by a gun fight. He’d maybe have read that paragraph again if it had described the curve of it, the weight of his balls, the smell of it, the way precome beaded from the tip, the way it moved slightly with each beat of his heart, each little thrust forward. He’d have jerked off over that paragraph, gotten his sweaty fingerprints all over the page, read it furtively under the covers, treasured each filthy word. 

He keeps breathing through his nose as Derek pushes slowly forwards, not letting him control anything about it. He can’t get away. He doesn’t want to, just wants this slow slide in, the pressure on Derek’s dick on his tongue, the taste of it. Derek takes his hand off his dick, touches his face, his cheek where he’s stretched around him, pushes at the hinge of his jaw until it hurts, like he wants to break him open. Derek’s grip’s relentless on the back of his head and everything’s painful and too much and if he could stay in a moment forever it would be this one. Derek doesn’t go in all the way the first time: he pushes in until Stiles feels like he’s going to gag, pulls out slowly, stroking Stiles’s cheek when he tries to move with him, to keep him in his mouth. “Easy,” Derek says, looks down at him with a smile, eyes dark and hooded. “I’ll go in further this time. Relax your throat; it’s gonna get filled.”

This time, he’s faster. He pulls Stiles onto his dick at the same time as moving forward, sets him off balance so he’s got no choice but to fall forwards, to let his dick past the back of his throat, past his gag reflex until Derek’s pressing his nose into his stomach, holding him on his dick as he tries not to panic, to unclench his hands and relax into it. Something in his mind settles. All he has to do is breathe when Derek lets him, gasp in desperate breaths of air when he pulls back enough, to accept the punishing pace Derek sets as he fucks his mouth. Tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes, and a few times he’s afraid he’s going to choke, to cough but he breathes through it, closes his eyes and relaxes, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.

The next time Derek’s dick is fully in his mouth, he presses his tongue to the underside, sucks so that when Derek pulls out the next time it’s with a filthy sounding noise, trail of precome still connecting his dick and Stiles’s lower lip. Derek traces his lip with his thumb, breaks the string of spit and come and pushes in again, slowly this time. He doesn’t go all the way in this time, just lets Stiles suckle the tip, dip his tongue into the slit at the top, roll his foreskin back and forth with his lips. He’s close, Stiles can feel it from the trembling of his thighs, the convulsive grip and release of the hand on his hair.

“You want me to come down your throat? Or on your face, your chest, mark you up with my spunk?”

Stiles takes him in deeper, leans forward slowly and eases his lips along Derek’s dick, lets his mouth stretch around him, leans forward until Derek’s past his gag reflex, his balls pressed against his chin, then just stays there, lets Derek’s hand keep him there, closes his eyes and relaxes into Derek’s minute thrusts as Derek comes down his throat, too far back for him to even taste it. His fingers are going numb by the time Derek pulls back and he gasps for breath as soon as his dick’s fully out, topples to the side, his legs aching from their forced splay, hands slapping on the floor. He’s so close to coming that the zipper on his jeans is painful.

He’s dimly aware of Derek tucking his dick back in,  moving away, but he just concentrates on breathing, on riding out the shudders that almost feel like sobs as he sprawls on the floor. He looks up when Derek’s boots come into his line of vision. Derek hands him a glass of water, watches him appraisingly as he drinks it, the coolness of it a shock on his abused throat. “Do you want to come now? Was that enough?” he asks, takes a step closer and strokes Stiles’s hair, lets him lean against his thigh seeking warmth, contact. Stiles knows that if he says yes, Derek will lead him to the couch, lie him down and kiss him, give him a handjob dirty enough to make an angel blush, milking his dick with a slow, easy slide, all slick and spit. If he says yes, they’ll make out through the aftershocks, lie there together and doze, peaceful. Derek keeps stroking his hair as he thinks, looks down at his hand around the glass. It’s starting to shake.

“No,” he says. He only has enough time to put the glass on the floor before Derek’s lifted him, slung him over his shoulder so that his dick’s trapped against his body, head hanging down as he’s carried to the couch, set down and pushed forwards so his ass is up and he’s bent over the armrest. Derek doesn’t undress him, just tugs his jeans and boxers down until they’re just above his knees, hobbling him. He tries to shuffle his legs closer to the couch, to get a bit more purchase, leverage, but Derek kicks his legs back, swats his ass, just a warning slap. Sometimes Derek talks when they do this. Tells Stiles exactly what he wants and watches with heat in his eyes as he blushes, stammers, fights with himself, against his nature, to obey. This isn’t going to be like this. This is going to be silent. Derek will move his body, direct him with single touches. _Make_ him.

 The arm of the couch is uncomfortable against his stomach, and only the tip of his dick is in contact with the fabric. He rests his head on his folded arms, flexes his back and relaxes it until he’s in a position he can stand to be in. He can feel the weight of Derek’s gaze as he does so, but Derek doesn’t stop him. When he’s settled, Derek puts his hand on the small of his back, sweeps it up under his shirts, his hand warm on his skin. When he brings his hand back, he scrapes lightly along Stiles’s skin with his nails, leaving trails of warmth in his wake. He repeats the motion; brush forward, scrape back, until Stiles is soothed, almost relaxed despite his position, his arousal. He breathes deeply, eyes slipping shut. The snick of the lube uncapping drags him back to full awareness. Derek must have waited until he was almost under, must have waited until then to do it, to jolt him.

He grips Stiles’s asscheek in one hand, pulls it to the side and Stiles is on the verge of yelling at the touch of plastic on the rim of his asshole because he knows what that means but he can’t get out any words out before Derek’s squirting cold lube _directly into his ass_ , the shock making him try to jerk away as he tries to get out words, ends up sounding like an angry cat. Some of the lube ends up on his asscheek, trickles out of his hole and down his taint to his balls, drips down onto his boxers. He’s still scowling about the lube when Derek steps on his jeans and boxers, forces them down around his ankles, taps his left leg then his right leg then strokes down his flanks when Stiles steps out of them, toes off his sneakers and kicks them off . They thud to the floor somewhere behind him as he toes his socks off, too, takes off his shirt because Derek hasn’t told him not to and he’s too hot, the fabric sticking to his front, soaked with sweat.

Derek forces his legs apart again, stands between them. He’s still fully clothed, his jeans rough against the soft skin of Stiles’s inner thighs. He smears the lube over Stiles’s hole with his thumb, gently presses in with just the tip, pulls out again. The lube makes sound as he presses in again, faster this time, and Stiles can feel his cheeks heat up, groans and closes his eyes against the humiliation, the lurching thrill of it. Derek does it again just to hear that squelch again and his hole welcomes the intrusion, clenches and opens as Derek presses against his rim, tugs with his thumb as if testing it. He’s fascinated with Stiles’s body, with its responses, and Stiles doesn’t hold back, even now, even when he’s ashamed because Derek’s generous and careful and it’s the least he could do, letting himself writhe and moan on Derek’s thumb, fingers, dick, wanton, greedy.

This time, Derek presses in with two fingers and Stiles lets out a shocked grunt, pushes against the floor with his feet at the sudden stretch of it, the lack of warning and it’s too much and he _can’t,_ but Derek’s other hand is stroking down his back, down to his hip and he’s making little hushing sounds as Stiles whimpers and tries to get away, as his dick brushes against the side of the couch and he’s still hard and it still hurts but it’s getting easier. Derek keeps his fingers still as Stiles remembers how to breathe, relaxes into it, only starts moving when his breaths are slow and steady, then it’s a slow in and out, twisting sometimes, sometimes hooking around his rim and pulling. His other hand’s still resting on Stiles’s hip, fingers curved around it, warm and steady as he presses in, pulls out, spreads and stretches and probes, brushing against his prostate, accidental, glancing touches.

Stiles wants to come. He knows that what he’s being given isn’t enough and he’s been on the edge of it for so long now, this shivering feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach. He shifts restlessly, the fabric of the couch rough against his nipples, can feel his dick leaking precome, can feel the tightness in his balls and if he moved again a few more times, fucked the couch, he would get there.

He stops moving. Derek huffs out a laugh, rewards him with an extra press against his prostate, then he takes his fingers out, slaps Stiles’s ass again as he whines, empty, his hole gaping then clenching around nothing, desperate to be fucked, stuffed full of fingers, dick, anything but this need, this emptiness. Then Derek grasps both his asscheeks, spreads them and he shudders for a different reason as Derek spits directly onto his hole, hums a little as Stiles shudders. It feels so _rude_ , somehow, and Stiles doesn’t know why this feels dirtier than everything else they do but he feels this hot, tingling rush of shame, hides his face in his arm, digs his toes into the bare floor. There are a few beats of total silence, then the thud of Derek’s knees hitting the floor.

He bites into his arm, knows exactly what this means. Rimming’s kind of…he used to skip past it in porn, eager to get to the dicking, but Derek’s. Derek’s properly into it. Loves it, which means Stiles loves it too but it’s hard when he’s like this, when he can’t move away and doesn’t want to beg. He can feel the delicate huffs of Derek’s breath as he scents down to Stiles’s balls, nose brushing against his taint. His forehead rests on the curve of Stiles’s ass for a few seconds and he can feel the tension in Derek’s fingers as he struggles for control then he bumps his nose up against Stiles’s hole, presses a wet kiss directly onto his rim, his beard scraping the delicate skin on his ass. Stiles’s ass clenches—tries to, but he’s held open with a grip that’ll probably leave bruises tomorrow and he can’t really do anything, not when Derek decides to lick a long line from his taint, right up, tongue broad and flat on his asshole, spreading the spit and lube , trailing it up, up to the small of his back.

Another lick, generous and slow and it’s so soft, feels so good on his skin that he opens up, unfurls so that the next time Derek licks up he can press his tongue down and into his ass, little stabbing motions, lips soft and beard harsh. Stiles can’t stop making these needy whimpers, sobs with how good it feels, like lightning traveling up his spine. Derek’s greedy, eager, swipes his tongue over his ass and then in in repeated, hypnotic movements until his fingers are tingling and he never wants to come, wants to be on this beautiful edge, cold, sharp tingles running through the nerves of his legs, warmth everywhere else. His arm is wet with tears and his dick is leaking continuously, and fuck, the floor must have a puddle of his precome on it; the loft’ll smell like him for _months._

It’s too much already when Derek leans back, lets go of his ass. He can hear him swiping a hand across his mouth before he presses a kiss to his asscheek, the small of his back, strokes his flank. Stiles breathes deeply, shudders and tries to calm down. When Derek steps back, he levers himself off the couch, legs shaking, dick swaying in the air, right up against his stomach. He turns around, hands by his sides and lets Derek look at him. He feels like prey. Derek’s hard again, pupils blown. His fingers catch the sunlight, shiny with lube and Stiles can’t stop looking at them, licks his lips, steps forwards without meaning to so they’re toe to toe and this time Derek does kiss him. They started like this, a desperate kiss in the aftermath as the dust settled around them. Covered in blood and crying. He’d never wanted it to stop, because Derek kisses him like he’s something precious and dirty, pours everything into it and Derek’s lips are soft and shaped to fit his and his tongue feels right in Stiles’s mouth and it’s so dirty and real and all he’s ever wanted. Derek’s still fully clothed. Even has his boots on. His jeans are rough on Stiles’s dick, but his Henley’s soft, soothing on his bruised, abraded skin and he loves how naked he feels.

He loves the press of Derek’s body against his own, loves how Derek’s hair feels under his hands. Loves the way that even when they’re making out, Derek’s aware enough of his surroundings to walk them backwards towards the bed, doesn’t break the kiss when he topples them down onto it, twisting so he’s bracketing Stiles with his legs and Stiles can’t help smiling, loves it when he breaks out the werewolf stuff, his simple pride in it all and it feels weird, smiling when Derek’s nipping at his lower lip. Derek pulls back, brushes Stiles’s hair back from his forehead. “Almost there,” he murmurs, ducks his head and drags his nose along Stiles’s cheekbone, beard soft on his jaw. Derek sits back, takes his clothes off efficiently then straddles him, his dick trailing wetness onto Stiles’s skin, hard and hot. He returns to the bite he left on Stiles’s neck, licks at it, presses his teeth into the bruise he made, licks it, soothes the ache.  He kisses it, then kisses down his chest and Stiles’s hand tightens a little when he closes his mouth around Stiles’s nipple, flicks his tongue over it once, bites down delicately as Stiles tries to remember how to breathe, tugs at his hair until it has to be painful but he doesn’t let up until Stiles is arched off the bed.

 He does it again, this time to the other nipple, strokes his thumb across the one he bit first. It’s like lightning bolts again, pain wrapped up in pleasure. When Stiles was a kid he’d hold ice cubes in his hand until his knuckles felt as if they were burning, right deep in his bones, didn’t open his hand until they were fully melted. The sensation was enchanting, the idea more so: the way such a small, innocuous thing could cause him such pain, such agony but not leave a mark.  It’s always been there, that need. Derek’s bite turns to a suckle, lips wrapped around his nipple, tongue soothing it and it’s like Derek’s nursing, his whole body relaxed, eyes slipping shut for a few seconds and this time Stiles is generous; he strokes his hair and although he shudders at the feeling, toes curling into the mattress, he doesn’t struggle. He keeps making little thrusts up against Derek’s hip, unable to control his movements and by the time Derek lifts his head from his nipple, he’s left a trail of damp on his skin and it would take the lightest touch to make him come. He doesn’t want to just yet. Wants to come with Derek inside him, full of his dick

Derek reaches under him, touches the rim of his asshole gently, tests it with one, then two fingers. He’s still pretty slick from the lube; it keeps leaking out of him onto the comforter, warm and damp, but he’s tightened up a little and Derek pushes a third finger in, almost too quickly. By the time Derek thinks he’s ready he’s making little grunts, vocalizations at the force with which he’s fucking his fingers in and out, twisting them so they tug on his hole, hooking then spreading them. He pulls his fingers out too quickly, strokes once over his hole like he’s apologizing then he rolls them so he’s lying back, Stiles on top of him and he lowers Stiles down onto his dick before Stiles has even caught up with their new position, lowers him right down until he’s completely impaled, gasping for breath.

It’s a sharp shock; Stiles leans forwards, hides his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, shaking with how full he is. Derek makes little soothing noises, puts one hand on the back of his neck and strokes his sweaty skin as he bites down, gives him a few moments to recover. His dick’s trapped between them, pressed up against the ridges of Derek’s abdominal muscles, slides against them as Derek starts to thrust, makes sharp rocking motions with his hips. His dick never leaves Stiles’s body; it’s not a slide in and out. It feels like Derek’s reshaping him somehow, making a home for his dick inside Stiles’s body as he wraps his arms tightly around Stiles’s back and thrusts up and in, impossibly deep. His balls ache, bounce up against his dick as Derek flattens his feet on the bed for more leverage and he’s making these punched-out ‘ah ah ah’ sounds against Derek’s skin as he hurtles towards orgasm. Everything’s too much and Derek’s merciless, doesn’t change his speed or the force of his thrusts because it hurts in this perfect way and when he comes it feels like he’s dying again, his orgasm torn out of him and it doesn’t stop, wave after wave of it.

Derek keeps on fucking him through it until his poor abused dick doesn’t have any more spunk to give and he’s loose and boneless, dick limp and sensitive as it brushes against Derek’s skin, the spunk pooled in his stomach, his hipbones. He likes getting fucked after he’s come, loves the sensation of it, gets to feel Derek’s dick without the distraction of his own orgasm. Likes the feeling that he’s there for Derek’s pleasure, like his own doesn’t matter and he’s just there to be fucked. Derek’s thrusts are getting uneven now, and he’s kissing the top of Stiles’s head, his ear, any part of Stiles he can get to with this feverish need so Stiles lifts his head sleepily, kisses him, cups his cheek with his hand and strokes his skin as he fucks up into his body with a force that he’ll feel for days. He gentles him through it, feels this overwhelming tenderness as Derek comes apart, comes with a harsh cry as his hips lift off the bed, dick pulsing inside Stiles’s ass as he holds Stiles close with enough strength to bruise.

They lie there for a long time. Come trickles down Stiles’s ass as Derek’s dick softens inside him and even that sensation isn’t enough to rouse Derek fully. Stiles feels washed clean, peaceful. His mind feels quiet, heart free of that pervasive guilt and all his emotions are his own, his body is his own and he smiles sleepily against Derek’s skin because they could be each other’s one day. He stretches out his legs, winces at how weird Derek’s soft dick feels slipping out of his ass, at the warmth of the spunk and lube trickling out and onto Derek’s thigh. Derek hums agreeably as Stiles settles on top of him, head on his chest, leg bent and slung over his thighs.  “You okay?” he asks quietly, stroking Stiles’s hair, and this time, the question’s the right one, doesn’t hurt him.

This time, he can say “yes,” and mean it.


End file.
